A State of War
by teammcgonagall
Summary: One-shot. It's 1941 and life as they knew it is over.


It feels as though they've been left on tender-hooks for years, but it's just been a measly twenty-seven hours, just twenty-seven hours for their world to turn upside-down.

She can barely meet her father's eyes that afternoon: his face is so drawn; his anxiety is written in every wrinkle and crevice of his expression. She can only imagine how he must feel, what it must be like to watch the development of a second great war after actively participating in the first. It's almost too much for her to bear, thinking about her father's fear and unease, so instead she focuses on the radio sitting patiently on the fireplace, the sound of the incidental music between broadcasts filling the strained silence between them. Her eyes occasionally flicker to the window where she watches the snow peacefully fall to the ground. She begins to wish she could be a child again and play out in that cold winter air—but those twenty-seven hours had turned her into a grown woman; childhood was now suddenly and irrevocably behind her.

When the president's voice breaks that irritating music, they both unconsciously tighten—his fists clench and her back straightens—even though the voice is nearly as familiar to them as their own. Suddenly the room is too warm, the lights are too bright. The voice does not help to calm her sudden nervousness. The words are forceful but gentle.

"As Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense—"

The words cut like knives and she nearly screams at them; without quite knowing how, she finds herself in her father's arms, even as the broadcast continues. He's nearly on the floor beside her as he clutches desperately at her back with his wide, strong hands; her thin arms are tight around his neck and she struggles to breathe in his scent as her tears stain his sweater. She never wants him to let go—she wants to be his young daughter forever, a little girl who only understands her father's love, who has no concept of violence or hate or.

Or wars.

And as she's holding onto him for dear life, as his hands rub up and down so gently on her spine, as the voice of her president fills her ears, she can only think of another pair of hands, another voice.

_She remembers how tired his eyes had been. "He's gonna declare war any day," he says, but he's exhausted—he's trying to justify his decision not only to her, but to himself. "And when he does, I'm gonna sign up. I have to." An unconvincing, pitiful smile. "I _want_ to."_

_ "But you're too young!" She clutches at this knowledge in an attempt to stay afloat as fear nearly overwhelms her. "You can't—"_

_ She's cut off abruptly by the slow shake of his head. "Congress'll lower the age. They did it before, and they'll do it again. They'll have to."_

With a new, raging passion overtaking her heart, she breaks free from her father's grasp with a cry of "Frank Hardy!" She stumbles through the living room, hardly able to catch herself on the door as she yanks it open and runs into the street.

Her penny loafers have no traction on the wet street and she slips as she rounds the corners, scraping her knees and the palms of her hands repeatedly. Her sweater is damp from sweat and snow, and her socks are soaked straight through, but all she cares about is reaching the house at the end of the block.

Her bloodied hand pounds on the door to his house, and she cries his name hoarsely. Slowly it opens, and the boy on the other side is pale and grim, although he smiles at the sight of her. Her cheeks are pink and her hair is wild; she's breathing heavily and runs a wrist across her mouth to wipe away the runny mess under her nose. The smile dies when he takes in her desperate eyes.

They stand staring at each other for what seems like an eternity—they don't know what to say to each other, can't think of anything that would begin to cover the events that had happened between their last meeting. But none of the words matter as he takes her in his arms so quickly that her wrist has only just left her mouth and is caught between their shoulders. But the pain of its twist doesn't bother her because his dry warm lips are on her cold wet ones and they're kissing and kissing and the strength leaves her body from the heat of him around her freezing limbs.

"Marry me." She can only just hear his whisper over her own sobs.


End file.
